Paper Roses by Amanda Cabot Page A

loved him and wanted only the best for him. But so did Sarah. She hadn’t been mouthing platitudes the day she’d met Robert when she’d said she had been looking forward to having a new father. She needed him and, though neither he nor Clay might admit it, Robert needed her.
    Sarah took another step toward Clay, deliberately softening her voice in the hope he’d understand. “Half a dozen doctors—some of the finest in the country, I might add—told my parents and me the same thing when I broke my leg. No one offered me the slightest hope, but I’m walking now.” She gestured toward her right leg. “Even though I’ll always limp, at least I’m not confined to a chair. If I could escape the chair, so can your father. I can show him how.”
    Clay shook his head. “This is different. Pa suffered from apoplexy, not a fall from a horse.”
    Clay sounded like all the doctors her parents had consulted. He might have gone to medical school, he might have helped many patients, but this time he was wrong. “That’s all the more reason to think he can regain the use of his legs. Nothing was broken.”
    The look Clay gave her was filled with pity. “You don’t understand.”
    “You don’t, either. The human spirit can overcome more than you imagine. The doctors said it would be a miracle if I walked. I don’t believe it was a miracle. I’m walking because of my determination.”
    “And you believe your determination will let my father regain use of his legs? That would be a miracle. Unfortunately, I don’t believe in them any more than you do. Stay away from my father.”
    But she would not.

5
    It reminded her of Philadelphia. Though smaller, the building was filling with people. As she settled Thea on her lap, Sarah heard murmured conversations, the rustle of pages as others opened their hymnals, the occasional cry of a baby. She took a deep breath to calm her nerves and inhaled the scent of candle wax mingled with the stronger fragrances of toilet water and hair oil. It was Sunday morning, only a few minutes before the service was to begin, time for the faithful and those who wanted to be counted among them to gather.
    If she closed her eyes and pretended the parishioners were speaking English rather than French, Sarah could believe she was once again in Philadelphia. But she wasn’t, and for that she was supremely grateful. In Philadelphia, she would have been sitting alone. In Philadelphia, she would have been subjected to stares, to whispered comments, to outright snubs. Here she faced none of that. Instead, she was greeted with genuinely welcoming smiles. Oh, there was curiosity. She had expected that. But there was no condemnation and no pity. Since no one knew her past, there was no one to judge her for her father’s actions. The only judge was the voice deep inside, reminding her that she who’d been so quick to accuse the Philadelphia congregation of hypocrisy was guilty of the same sin.
    Thea patted Sarah’s hand, urging her to turn another page. Though she managed a smile for her sister, Sarah could not dismiss the feeling that she was an imposter. The others had come to worship God; Sarah had not. She was here because she knew it was what Mama would have wanted for Thea. That’s why they were sitting in a pew with Isabelle’s family. That’s why Sarah was holding Mama’s Bible so Thea could pretend to read it. This was an obligation, nothing more.
    When the organist paused, the whispering ceased, and a sense of anticipation rippled through the congregation as a slight, black-robed man entered the sanctuary, his hands urging them to rise. This was, Sarah knew, Père Tellier.
    “Let us pray.”
    Sarah moved mechanically, standing and kneeling at the correct times. Though the service was in French, the words were similar to those she’d heard every Sunday of her childhood. There had been a time when those words had touched her heart, when she had felt a joy so great it had brought tears to her